


sunshine (though the world is broken)

by DianaSolaris



Category: Homestuck
Genre: (tags are for background/backstory stuff), Disordered Eating, I Assume They're Not Together But Who Knows, I...dont know where karkat is, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Mental Health Issues, No Smut, POV First Person, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery, Sibling Incest, Stream of Consciousness, past Dirkjake
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-03
Updated: 2018-12-03
Packaged: 2019-09-06 02:17:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16823158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DianaSolaris/pseuds/DianaSolaris
Summary: Thing is, if things had worked out alright, on either end, we would have been there for each other for the rest of our lives. I know Bro would never have let me go without at least some form of contact, and Dirk was supposed to be raised by somebody, not stranded all alone out in the middle of the ocean with just computers and text messages for company.(No wonder he’s a bit odd.)We were supposed to know each other inside out. We were supposed to protect each other. Instead, he tells me with casual offhandedness about friends he used to have, or some of the things Jake would say.Instead, I try to mince around the topic of Bro, and just don’t look Dirk in the eye when he goes without shaving for a few days.Title comes from two songs - Sunshine and Atlantic by Keane.





	sunshine (though the world is broken)

Bro is dead, Bro is dead, Bro is dead. My brother is dead. I got a best friend instead. This should be okay. This should be fine.

The world works in mysterious ways and I still don’t understand half of them.

My brother is dead.

My brother is here.

My brother is dead.

\---

Thing is, if things had worked out alright, on either end, we would have been there for each other for the rest of our lives. I know Bro would never have let me go without at least some form of contact (fuck fuck fuck I miss him I hate him) and Dirk was supposed to be raised by somebody, not stranded all alone out in the middle of the ocean with just computers and text messages for company.

(No wonder he’s a bit odd.)

We were supposed to know each other inside out. We were supposed to protect each other. Instead, he tells me with casual offhandedness about friends he used to have, or some of the things Jake would say (he didn’t mean any harm, but I can see the harm that was done in the frown in the center of his eyebrows, the hesitant way he expresses any sort of emotion, the things he flinches at. And Jake doesn’t carry all of the burden, but I’m angry anyway).

Instead, I try to mince around the topic of Bro, and just don’t look Dirk in the eye when he goes without shaving for a few days.

I should have been there for him.

He should have been there for me.

Instead, we’re broken and too much of tough guys to even admit it. Instead, we dance.

\---

It’s not that I want him to fuck me, or apologize to me, or anything godawful or wimpy like that. (Perhaps I do. Perhaps I’m just being stubborn. Perhaps it’d be easier if I was actually raped instead of -) I just don’t know where to put him, which box in my head he’s supposed to slot into. So he just kind of – overflows, into everything.

I think about him before going to bed. (Does he like the same bands that Bro and I listened to? Is it wrong to ask?) and wake in sweaty sheets, even more confused than ever. I’m not attracted to my brother. Quite the opposite. It’s not _really_ sexual abuse if somebody just comments on how fit you are, keeps walking in on you naked, keeps telling you about his hookups when you’re too young to understand what they are, leaves his…stuff around. It just means – it just means you spend your entire childhood thinking about your brother as a sexual object, or thinking about him thinking about you like that. It was all in my head.

This is all in my head too. I’m substituting one person for another.

The next time Dirk gets that little crease between his eyebrows, remembering something that hurt more than he’ll ever admit, I press up a little closer to him. The shoulder-nudge of support. It’s normal. This is normal.

\---

I stop eating. Not on purpose.

\---

I imagine scenarios where I saved him, or he saved me, or or or –

Scenarios where things truly did work out for the best. I crash into the ocean, right next to him. I’m there when he’s feeling lonely. We make shitty rap videos together.

He shows up when I’m eight, before things got really bad, and Bro has… an accident. Doesn’t die. (Sometimes he does. I hate myself for it.) Just – gets hurt, and needs me to live somewhere else, or takes too much drugs and forgets who I am, or gets a girlfriend and needs the space. And Dirk is there, holding my hand so I don’t fall apart, teaching me what it’s like to have a real protector.

A little bit of sunshine, fake or not, to make up for all the crap.

The sexual shit, in retrospect, makes a lot of sense. Once you’ve got the wires for ‘father’, ‘brother’ and ‘object of fantasy’ crossed, it’s hard to untangle them. Of course I’d get the hots for anybody who treated me like a goddamn human.

Roxy talks about how much the two of them depended on each other, sometimes. I want to rip her throat out. I keep the thoughts (unfair, unfair, unfair) to myself and put on a smile and make some kooky joke. I like her so much that hating her feels even worse.

\---

I don’t realize I’ve passed out until I wake up. One moment I was standing outside. The next, I’m in bed.

Dirk pushes his way into the room holding a wet towel. “You’re up. Thank god.” He puts the wet towel to my forehead (it’s so cold or is that just me burning up) and it’s so fucking, _paternalistic,_ that I have to laugh.

“What’s so funny?”

My laugh turns into a cough. “Fuck. What did I do to myself?”

“When was the last time you _ate?_ ”

Ah. Right. That.

“Roxy’s making you some soup,” Dirk grumbles. He’s not wearing his sunglasses, and he looks so – so vulnerable. So worried. Like he might actually give a shit (haha that’s funny of course he doesn’t of Course he doesn’t-“

I sit up, and I actually force myself to wait for a moment, I know this is a terrible idea –

I kiss him.

He doesn’t pull away. Quite the opposite. He’s kissing me back, and then, then – he pulls away, staring at me with something I really hope isn’t pity. I can’t stand to be pitied.

Then he kisses me on the forehead (more paternalism more kindness I’m going to start fucking bawling and I need him not to see it, please, please, please) and pulls me into his chest.

It’s half a scream, half a sob when it comes out of my mouth. And I’m not crying because he rejected me, I’m not crying because I can’t make out with my brother, I’d be more upset if I actually went through with it I think I don’t know –

-no, it’s just that, for a moment, I think he might get it. And I’m so tired and so broken and so _over it all_ that that’s enough.

He puts me back to bed, climbs in with me, holds me like he’s worried I might break. “We can talk about it,” he murmurs, “later, if you want.” Ball’s in my court. “I don’t mind either way. But not like this.”

Not like this.

If I’m going to kiss him, I’ll do it when I’m happy. I’ll do it when I’m not shattering from the inside out. I’ll do it because I want to kiss _him,_ and nobody else.

I lace my fingers into his, and thank you is still too hard to say. But he knows.


End file.
